Chapter XVIII. John Bellingham

The next few days were a very nightmare of horror and gloom. Of course,
I repudiated my acceptance of the decree of banishment that Ruth had
passed upon me. I was her friend, at least, and in time of peril my
place was at her side. Tacitly--though thankfully enough, poor
girl!--she had recognised the fact and made me once more free of the
house.

For there was no disguising the situation. Newspaper boys yelled the
news up and down Fleet Street from morning to night; soul-shaking
posters grinned on gaping crowds; and the newspapers fairly wallowed in
the "Shocking details." It is true that no direct accusations were made;
but the original reports of the disappearance were reprinted with such
comments as made me gnash my teeth with fury.

The wretchedness of those days will live in my memory until my dying
day. Never can I forget the dread that weighed me down, the horrible
suspense, the fear that clutched at my heart as I furtively scanned the
posters in the streets. Even the wretched detectives who prowled about
the entrances to Nevill's Court became grateful to my eyes, for,
embodying as they did the hideous menace that hung over my dear lady,
their presence at least told me that the blow had not yet fallen.
Indeed, we came, after a time, to exchange glances of mutual
recognition, and I thought that they seemed to be sorry for her and for
me, and had no great liking for their task. Of course, I spent most of
my leisure at the old house, though my heart ached more there than
elsewhere; and I tried, with but poor success, I fear, to maintain a
cheerful, confident manner, cracking my little jokes as of old, and even
essaying to skirmish with Miss Oman. But this last experiment was a dead
failure; and when she had suddenly broken down in a stream of brilliant
repartee to weep hysterically on my breast, I abandoned the attempt and
did not repeat it.

A dreadful gloom had settled down upon the old house. Poor Miss Oman
crept silently but restlessly up and down the ancient stairs with dim
eyes and a tremulous chin, or moped in her room with a parliamentary
petition (demanding, if I remember rightly, the appointment of a female
judge to deal with divorce and matrimonial causes) which lay on her
table languidly awaiting signatures that never came. Mr. Bellingham,
whose mental condition at first alternated between furious anger and
absolute panic, was fast sinking into a state of nervous prostration
that I viewed with no little alarm. In fact, the only really
self-possessed person in the entire household was Ruth herself, and even
she could not conceal the ravages of sorrow and suspense and
overshadowing peril. Her manner was almost unchanged; or rather, I
should say, she had gone back to that which I had first known--quiet,
reserved, taciturn, with a certain bitter humour showing through her
unvarying amiability. When she and I were alone, indeed, her reserve
melted away and she was all sweetness and gentleness. But it wrung my
heart to look at her, to see how, day by day, she grew ever more thin
and haggard; to watch the growing pallor of her cheek; to look into her
solemn grey eyes, so sad and tragic and yet so brave and defiant of
fate.

It was a terrible time; and through it all the dreadful questions
haunted me continually: When will the blow fall? What is it that the
police are waiting for? And when they do strike, what will Thorndyke
have to say?

So things went on for four dreadful days. But on the fourth day, just as
the evening consultations were beginning and the surgery was filled with
waiting patients, Polton appeared with a note, which he insisted, to the
indignation of Adolphus, on delivering into my own hands. It was from
Thorndyke, and was to the following effect:----

"I learn from Dr. Norbury that he has recently heard from Herr
Lederbogen, of Berlin--a learned authority on Oriental antiquities--who
makes some reference to an English Egyptologist whom he met in Vienna
about a year ago. He cannot recall the Englishman's name, but there are
certain expressions in the letter which make Dr. Norbury suspect that he
is referring to John Bellingham.

"I want you to bring Mr. and Miss Bellingham to my chambers this evening
at 8.30, to meet Dr. Norbury and talk over this letter; and in view of
the importance of the matter, I look to you not to fail me."

A wave of hope and relief swept over me. It was still possible that this
Gordian knot might be cut; that the deliverance might come before it was
too late. I wrote a hasty note in reply to Thorndyke and another to
Ruth, making the appointment; and having given them both to the trusty
Polton, returned somewhat feverishly to my professional duties. To my
profound relief, the influx of patients ceased, and the practice sank
into its accustomed torpor; whereby I was able, without base and
mendacious subterfuge, to escape in good time to my tryst.

It was near upon eight o'clock when I passed through the archway into
Nevill's Court. The warm afternoon light had died away, for the summer
was running out apace. The last red glow of the setting sun had faded
from the ancient roofs and chimney-stacks, and down in the narrow court
the shades of evening had begun to gather in nooks and corners. I was
due at eight, and, as it still wanted some minutes to the hour, I
sauntered slowly down the court, looking reflectively on the familiar
scene and the well-known friendly faces.

The day's work was drawing to a close. The little shops were putting up
their shutters; lights were beginning to twinkle in parlour windows; a
solemn hymn arose in the old Moravian chapel, and its echoes stole out
through the dark entry that opens into the court under the archway.

Here was Mr. Finneymore (a man of versatile gifts, with a leaning
towards paint and varnish) sitting, white-aproned and shirt-sleeved, on
a chair in his garden, smoking his pipe with a complacent eye on his
dahlias. There at an open window a young man, with a brush in his hand
and another behind his ear, stood up and stretched himself while an
older lady deftly rolled up a large map. The barber was turning out the
gas in his little saloon; the greengrocer was emerging with a cigarette
in his mouth and an aster in his button-hole, and a group of children
were escorting the lamplighter on his rounds.

All these good, homely folk were Nevill's Courtiers of the genuine
breed; born in the court, as had been their fathers before them for
generations. And of such to a great extent was the population of the
place. Miss Oman herself claimed aboriginal descent and so did the
sweet-faced Moravian lady next door--a connection of the famous La
Trobes of the old Conventicle, whose history went back to the Gordon
Riots; and as to the gentleman who lived in the ancient
timber-and-plaster house at the bottom of the court, it was reported
that his ancestors had dwelt in that very house since the days of James
the First.

On these facts I reflected as I sauntered down the court: on the strange
phenomenon of an old-world hamlet with its ancient population lingering
in the very heart of the noisy city; an island of peace set in an ocean
of unrest, an oasis in a desert of change and ferment.

My meditations brought me to the shabby gate in the high wall, and as I
raised the latch and pushed it open, I saw Ruth standing at the door of
the house talking to Miss Oman. She was evidently waiting for me, for
she wore her sombre black cloak and hat and a black veil, and when she
saw me she came out, closing the door after her and holding out her
hand.

"You are punctual," said she. "St. Dunstan's clock is striking now."

"Yes," I answered. "But where is your father?"

"He has gone to bed, poor old dear. He didn't feel well enough to come,
and I did not urge him. He is really very ill. This dreadful suspense
will kill him if it goes on much longer."

"Let us hope it won't," I said, but with little conviction, I fear, in
my tone. It was harrowing to see her torn by anxiety for her father, and
I yearned to comfort her. But what was there to say? Mr. Bellingham was
breaking up visibly under the stress of the terrible menace that hung
over his daughter, and no words of mine could make the fact less
manifest.

We walked silently up the court. The lady at the window greeted us with
a smiling salutation, Mr. Finneymore removed his pipe and raised his
cap, receiving a gracious bow from Ruth in return, and then we passed
through the covered way into Fetter Lane, where my companion paused and
looked about her.

"What are you looking for?" I asked.

"The detective," she answered quietly. "It would be a pity if the poor
man should miss me after waiting so long. However, I don't see him"; and
she turned away towards Fleet Street. It was an unpleasant surprise to
me that her sharp eyes had detected the secret spy upon her movements;
and the dry, sardonic tone of her remark pained me, too, recalling, as
it did, the frigid self-possession that had so repelled me in the early
days of our acquaintance. And yet I could not but admire the cool
unconcern with which she faced her horrible peril.

"Tell me a little more about this conference," she said, as we walked
down Fetter Lane. "Your note was rather more concise than lucid; but I
suppose you wrote it in a hurry."

"Yes, I did. And I can't give you any details now. All I know is that
Doctor Norbury has had a letter from a friend of his in Berlin, an
Egyptologist, as I understand, named Lederbogen, who refers to an
English acquaintance of his and Norbury's whom he saw in Vienna about a
year ago. He cannot remember the Englishman's name, but from some of the
circumstances Norbury seems to think that he is referring to your Uncle
John. Of course, if this should turn out to be really the case, it would
set everything straight; so Thorndyke was anxious that you and your
father should meet Norbury and talk it over."

"I see," said Ruth. Her tone was thoughtful but by no means
enthusiastic.

"You don't seem to attach much importance to the matter," I remarked.

"No. It doesn't seem to fit the circumstances. What is the use of
suggesting that poor Uncle John is alive--and behaving like an imbecile,
which he certainly was not--when his dead body has actually been found?"

"But," I suggested lamely, "there may be some mistake. It may not be his
body after all."

"And the ring?" she asked, with a bitter smile.

"That may be just a coincidence. It was a copy of a well-known form of
antique ring. Other people may have had copies made as well as your
uncle. Besides," I added, with more conviction, "we haven't seen the
ring. It may not be his at all."

She shook her head. "My dear Paul," she said quietly, "it is useless to
delude ourselves. Every known fact points to the certainty that it is
his body. John Bellingham is dead: there can be no doubt of that. And to
everyone except his unknown murderer and one or two of my own loyal
friends, it must seem that his death lies at my door. I realised from
the beginning that the suspicion lay between George Hurst and me; and
the finding of the ring fixes it definitely on me. I am only surprised
that the police have made no move yet."

The quiet conviction of her tone left me for a while speechless with
horror and despair. Then I recalled Thorndyke's calm, even confident
attitude, and I hastened to remind her of it.

"There is one of your friends," I said, "who is still undismayed.
Thorndyke seems to anticipate no difficulties."

"And yet," she replied, "he is ready to consider a forlorn hope like
this. However, we shall see."

I could think of nothing more to say, and it was in gloomy silence that
we pursued our way down Inner Temple Lane and through the dark entries
and tunnel-like passages that brought us out, at length, by the
Treasury.

"I don't see any light in Thorndyke's chambers," I said, as we crossed
King's Bench Walk; and I pointed out the row of windows all dark and
blank.

"No: and yet the shutters are not closed. He must be out."

"He can't be after making an appointment with you and your father. It is
most mysterious. Thorndyke is so very punctilious about his
engagements."

The mystery was solved, when we reached the landing, by a slip of paper
fixed by a tack on the iron-bound "oak."

"A note for P.B. is on the table," was the laconic message: on reading
which I inserted my key, swung the heavy door outward, and opened the
lighter inner door. The note was lying on the table and I brought it
out to the landing to read by the light of the staircase lamp.

"Apologise to our friends," it ran, "for the slight change of programme.
Norbury is anxious that I should get my experiments over before the
Director returns, so as to save discussion. He has asked me to begin
to-night and says he will see Mr. and Miss Bellingham here, at the
Museum. Please bring them along at once. The hall porters are instructed
to admit you and bring you to us. I think some matters of importance may
transpire at the interview.--J.E.T."

* * * * *

"I hope you don't mind," I said apologetically, when I had read the note
to Ruth.

"Of course I don't," she replied. "I am rather pleased. We have so many
associations with the dear old Museum, haven't we?" She looked at me for
a moment with a strange and touching wistfulness and then turned to
descend the stone stairs.

At the Temple gate, I hailed a hansom and we were soon speeding westward
and north to the soft tinkle of the horse's bell.

"What are these experiments that Doctor Thorndyke refers to?" she asked
presently.

"I can only answer you rather vaguely," I replied. "Their object, I
believe, is to ascertain whether the penetrability of organic substances
by the X-rays becomes altered by age; whether, for instance, an ancient
block of wood is more or less transparent to the rays than a new block
of the same size."

"And of what use would the knowledge be, if it were obtained?"

"I can't say. Experiments are made to obtain knowledge without regard
to its utility. The use appears when the knowledge has been acquired.
But in this case, if it should be possible to determine the age of any
organic substance by its reaction to X-rays, the discovery might be of
some value in legal practice--as in demonstrating a new seal on an old
document, for instance. But I don't know whether Thorndyke has anything
definite in view; I only know that the preparations have been on a most
portentous scale."

"How do you mean?"

"In regard to size. When I went into the workshop yesterday morning, I
found Polton erecting a kind of portable gallows about nine feet high,
and he had just finished varnishing a pair of enormous wooden trays,
each over six feet long. It looked as if he and Thorndyke were
contemplating a few private executions with subsequent post-mortems on
the victims."

"What a horrible suggestion!"

"So Polton said, with his quaint, crinkly smile. But he was mighty close
about the use of the apparatus all the same. I wonder if we shall see
anything of the experiments, when we get there. This is Museum Street,
isn't it?"

"Yes." As she spoke, she lifted the flap of one of the little windows in
the back of the cab and peered out. Then, closing it with a quiet,
ironic smile, she said:

"It is all right; he hasn't missed us. It will be quite a nice little
change for him."

The cab swung round into Great Russell Street, and, glancing out as it
turned, I saw another hansom following; but before I had time to inspect
its solitary passenger, we drew up at the Museum gates. The
gate-porter, who seemed to expect us, ushered us up the drive to the
great portico and into the Central Hall, where he handed us over to
another official.

"Doctor Norbury is in one of the rooms adjoining the Fourth Egyptian
Room," the latter stated in answer to our inquiries: and, providing
himself with a wire-guarded lantern, he prepared to escort us thither.

Up the great staircase, now wrapped in mysterious gloom, we passed in
silence with bitter-sweet memories of that day of days when we had first
trodden its steps together: through the Central Saloon, the Mediaeval
Room and the Asiatic Saloon, and so into the long range of the
Ethnographical Galleries.

It was a weird journey. The swaying lantern shot its beams abroad into
the darkness of the great, dim galleries, casting instantaneous flashes
on the objects in the cases, so that they leaped into being and vanished
in the twinkling of an eye. Hideous idols with round, staring eyes
started forth from the darkness, glared at us for an instant and were
gone. Grotesque masks, suddenly revealed by the shimmering light, took
on the semblance of demon faces that seemed to mow and gibber at us as
we passed. As for the life-sized models--realistic enough by
daylight--their aspect was positively alarming; for the moving light and
shadow endowed them with life and movement, so that they seemed to watch
us furtively, to lie in wait and to hold themselves in readiness to
steal out and follow us. The illusion evidently affected Ruth as well as
me, for she drew nearer to me and whispered:

"These figures are quite startling. Did you see that Polynesian? I
really felt as if he were going to spring out on us."

"They are rather uncanny," I admitted, "but the danger is over now. We
are passing out of their sphere of influence."

We came out on a landing as I spoke and then turned sharply to the left
along the North Gallery, from the centre of which we entered the Fourth
Egyptian Room.

Almost immediately, a door in the opposite wall opened; a peculiar,
high-pitched humming sound became audible, and Jervis came out on tiptoe
with his hand raised.

"Tread as lightly as you can," he said. "We are just making an
exposure."

The attendant turned back with his lantern, and we followed Jervis into
the room from whence he had come. It was a large room, and little
lighter than the galleries, for the single glow-lamp that burned at the
end where we entered left the rest of the apartment in almost complete
obscurity. We seated ourselves at once on the chairs that had been
placed for us, and, when the mutual salutations had been exchanged, I
looked about me. There were three people in the room besides Jervis:
Thorndyke, who sat with his watch in his hand, a grey-headed gentleman
whom I took to be Dr. Norbury, and a smaller person at the dim farther
end--undistinguishable, but probably Polton. At our end of the room were
the two large trays that I had seen in the workshop, now mounted on
trestles and each fitted with a rubber drain-tube leading down to a
bucket. At the farther end of the room the sinister shape of the gallows
reared itself aloft in the gloom; only now I could see that it was not a
gallows at all. For affixed to the top cross-bar was a large,
bottomless glass basin, inside which was a glass bulb that glowed with a
strange green light; and in the heart of the bulb a bright spot of red.

It was all clear enough so far. The peculiar sound that filled the air
was the hum of the interrupter; the bulb was, of course, a Crookes tube,
and the red spot inside it, the glowing red-hot disc of the
anti-cathode. Clearly an X-ray photograph was being made; but of what? I
strained my eyes, peering into the gloom at the foot of the gallows, but
though I could make out an elongated object lying on the floor directly
under the bulb, I could not resolve the dimly seen shape into anything
recognisable. Presently, however, Dr. Norbury supplied the clue.

"I am rather surprised," said he, "that you chose so composite an object
as a mummy to begin on. I should have thought that a simpler object,
such as a coffin or a wooden figure, would have been more instructive."

"In some ways it would," replied Thorndyke, "but the variety of
materials that the mummy gives us has its advantages. I hope your father
is not ill, Miss Bellingham."

"He is not at all well," said Ruth, "and we agreed that it was better
for me to come alone. I knew Herr Lederbogen quite well. He stayed with
us for a time when he was in England."

"I trust," said Dr. Norbury, "that I have not troubled you for nothing.
Herr Lederbogen speaks of 'our erratic English friend with the long name
that I can never remember,' and it seemed to me that he might be
referring to your uncle."

"I should hardly have called my uncle erratic," said Ruth.

"No, no. Certainly not," Dr. Norbury agreed hastily. "However, you shall
see the letter presently and judge for yourself. We mustn't introduce
irrelevant topics while the experiment is in progress, must we, Doctor?"

"You had better wait until we have finished," said Thorndyke, "because I
am going to turn out the light. Switch off the current, Polton."

The green light vanished from the bulb, the hum of the interrupter swept
down an octave or two and died away. Then Thorndyke and Dr. Norbury rose
from their chairs and went towards the mummy, which they lifted tenderly
while Polton drew from beneath it what presently turned out to be a huge
black-paper envelope. The single glow-lamp was switched off, leaving the
room in total darkness, until there burst out suddenly a bright
orange-red light immediately above one of the trays.

We all gathered round to watch, as Polton--the high-priest of these
mysteries--drew from the black envelope a colossal sheet of bromide
paper, laid it carefully in the tray and proceeded to wet it with a
large brush which he had dipped in a pail of water.

"I thought you always used plates for this kind of work," said Dr.
Norbury.

"We do, by preference; but a six-foot plate would be impossible, so I
had a special paper made to the size."

There is something singularly fascinating in the appearance of a
developing photograph; in the gradual, mysterious emergence of the
picture from the blank, white surface of plate or paper. But a
skiagraph, or X-ray photograph, has a fascination all its own. Unlike
an ordinary photograph, which yields a picture of things already seen,
it gives a presentment of objects hitherto invisible; and hence, when
Polton poured the developer on the already wet paper, we all craned over
the tray with the keenest curiosity.

The developer was evidently a very slow one. For fully half a minute no
change could be seen in the uniform surface. Then, gradually, almost
insensibly, the marginal portion began to darken, leaving the outline of
the mummy in pale relief. The change, once started, proceeded apace.
Darker and darker grew the margin of the paper until from slaty grey it
had turned to black; and still the shape of the mummy, now in strong
relief, remained an elongated patch of bald white. But not for long.
Presently the white shape began to be tinged with grey, and, as the
colour deepened, there grew out of it a paler form that seemed to steal
out of the enshrouding grey like an apparition, spectral, awesome,
mysterious. The skeleton was coming into view.

"It is rather uncanny," said Dr. Norbury. "I feel as if I were assisting
at some unholy rite. Just look at it now!"

The grey shadow of the cartonnage, the wrappings and the flesh was
fading away into the black background and the white skeleton stood out
in sharp contrast. And it certainly was a rather weird spectacle.

"You'll lose the bones if you develop much farther," said Dr. Norbury.

"I must let the bones darken," Thorndyke replied, "in case there are any
metallic objects. I have three more papers in the envelope."

The white shape of the skeleton now began to grey over and, as Dr.
Norbury had said, its distinctness became less and yet less. Thorndyke
leaned over the tray with his eyes fixed on a point in the middle of the
breast and we all watched him in silence. Suddenly he rose. "Now,
Polton," he said sharply; "get the hypo on as quickly as you can."

Polton, who had been waiting with his hand on the stop-cock of the
drain-tube, rapidly ran off the developer into the bucket and flooded
the paper with the fixing solution.

"Now we can look at it at our leisure," said Thorndyke. After waiting a
few seconds, he switched on one of the glow-lamps, and as the flood of
light fell on the photograph, he added: "You see we haven't quite lost
the skeleton."

"No." Dr. Norbury put on a pair of spectacles and bent down over the
tray; and at this moment I felt Ruth's hand touch my arm, lightly, at
first, and then with a strong, nervous grasp; and I could feel that her
hand was trembling. I looked round at her anxiously and saw that she had
turned deathly pale.

"Would you rather go out into the gallery?" I asked; for the room with
its tightly shut windows was close and hot.

"No," she replied quietly, "I will stay here. I am quite well." But
still she kept hold of my arm.

Thorndyke glanced at her keenly and then looked away as Dr. Norbury
turned to him to ask a question.

"Why is it, think you, that some of the teeth show so much whiter than
others?"

"I think the whiteness of the shadows is due to the presence of metal,"
Thorndyke replied.

"Do you mean that the teeth have metal fillings?" asked Dr. Norbury.

"Yes."

"Really! This is very interesting. The use of gold stoppings--and
artificial teeth, too--by the ancient Egyptians is well known, but we
have no examples in the Museum. This mummy ought to be unrolled. Do you
think all those teeth are filled with the same metal? They are not
equally white."

"No," replied Thorndyke. "Those teeth that are perfectly white are
undoubtedly filled with gold, but that greyish one is probably filled
with tin."

"Very interesting," said Dr. Norbury. "Very interesting! And what do
you make of that faint mark across the chest, near the top of the
sternum?"

It was Ruth who answered his question.

"It is the Eye of Osiris!" she exclaimed, in a hushed voice.

"Dear me!" exclaimed Dr. Norbury, "so it is. You are quite right. It is
the Utchat--the Eye of Horus--or Osiris, if you prefer to call it so.
That, I presume, will be a gilded device on some of the wrappings."

"No: I should say it is a tattoo mark. It is too indefinite for a gilded
device. And I should say further that the tattooing is done in
vermilion, as carbon tattooing would cast no visible shadow."

"I think you must be mistaken about that," said Dr. Norbury, "but we
shall see, if the Director allows us to unroll the mummy. By the way,
those little objects in front of the knees are metallic, I suppose?"

"Yes, they are metallic. But they are not in front of the knees; they
are in the knees. They are pieces of silver wire which have been used
to repair fractured knee-caps."

"Are you sure of that?" exclaimed Dr. Norbury, peering at the little
white marks with ecstasy; "because, if you are, and if these objects are
what you say they are, the mummy of Sebek-hotep is an absolutely unique
specimen."

"I am quite certain of it," said Thorndyke.

"Then," said Dr. Norbury, "we have made a discovery, thanks to your
inquiring spirit. Poor John Bellingham! He little knew what a treasure
he was giving us! How I wish he could have known! How I wish he could
have been here with us to-night!"

He paused once more to gaze in rapture at the photograph. And then
Thorndyke, in his quiet, impassive way, said:

"John Bellingham is here, Doctor Norbury. This is John Bellingham."

Dr. Norbury started back and stared at Thorndyke in speechless
amazement.

"You don't mean," he exclaimed, after a long pause, "that this mummy is
the body of John Bellingham!"

"I do, indeed. There is no doubt of it."

"But it is impossible! The mummy was here in the gallery a full three
weeks before he disappeared."

"Not so," said Thorndyke. "John Bellingham was last seen alive by you
and Mr. Jellicoe on the fourteenth of October, more than three weeks
before the mummy left Queen Square. After that date he was never seen
alive or dead by any person who knew him and could identify him."

Dr. Norbury reflected awhile in silence. Then, in a faint voice, he
asked: "How do you suggest that John Bellingham's body came to be
inside that cartonnage?"

"I think Mr. Jellicoe is the most likely person to be able to answer
that question," Thorndyke replied drily.

There was another interval of silence, and then Dr. Norbury asked
suddenly:

"But what do you suppose has become of Sebek-hotep? The real
Sebek-hotep, I mean?"

"I take it," said Thorndyke, "that the remains of Sebek-hotep, or at
least a portion of them, are at present lying in the Woodford mortuary
awaiting an adjourned inquest."

As Thorndyke made this statement a flash of belated intelligence,
mingled with self-contempt, fell on me. Now that the explanation was
given, how obvious it was! And yet I, a competent anatomist and
physiologist and actually a pupil of Thorndyke's, had mistaken those
ancient bones for the remains of a recent body!

Dr. Norbury considered the last statement for some time in evident
perplexity. "It is all consistent enough, I must admit," said he, at
length, "and yet--are you quite sure there is no mistake? It seems so
incredible."

"There is no mistake, I assure you," Thorndyke answered. "To convince
you, I will give you the facts in detail. First, as to the teeth. I have
seen John Bellingham's dentist and obtained particulars from his
case-book. There were in all five teeth that had been filled. The right
upper wisdom-tooth, the molar next to it, and the second lower molar on
the left side, had all extensive gold fillings. You can see them all
quite plainly in the skiagraph. The left lower lateral incisor had a
very small gold filling, which you can see as a nearly circular white
dot. In addition to these, a filling of tin amalgam had been inserted
while the deceased was abroad, in the second left upper bicuspid, the
rather grey spot that we have already noticed. These would, by
themselves, furnish ample means of identification. But in addition,
there is the tattooed device of the Eye of Osiris--"

"Horus," murmured Dr. Norbury.

"Horus, then--in the exact locality in which it was borne by the
deceased and tattooed, apparently, with the same pigment. There are,
further, the suture wires in the knee-caps; Sir Morgan Bennet, having
looked up the notes of the operation, informs me that he introduced
three suture wires into the left patella and two into the right; which
is what the skiagraph shows. Lastly, the deceased had an old Pott's
fracture on the left side. It is not very apparent now, but I saw it
quite distinctly just now when the shadows of the bones were whiter. I
think that you may take it that the identification is beyond all doubt
or question."

"Yes," agreed Dr. Norbury, with gloomy resignation, "it sounds, as you
say, quite conclusive. Well, well, it is a most horrible affair. Poor
old John Bellingham! It looks uncommonly as if he had met with foul
play. Don't you think so?"

"I do," replied Thorndyke. "There was a mark on the right side of the
skull that looked rather like a fracture. It was not very clear, being
at the side, but we must develop up the next negative to show it."

Dr. Norbury drew his breath in sharply through his teeth. "This is a
gruesome business, Doctor," said he. "A terrible business. Awkward for
our people, too. By the way, what is our position in the matter? What
steps ought we to take?"

"You should give notice to the coroner--I will manage the police--and
you should communicate with one of the executors of the will."

"Mr. Jellicoe?"

"No, not Mr. Jellicoe, under the peculiar circumstances. You had better
write to Mr. Godfrey Bellingham."

"But I rather understood that Mr. Hurst was the co-executor," said Dr.
Norbury.

"He is surely, as matters stand," said Jervis.

"Not at all," replied Thorndyke. "He was as matters stood; but he is
not now. You are forgetting the conditions of clause two. That clause
sets forth the conditions under which Godfrey Bellingham shall inherit
the bulk of the estate and become the co-executor; and those conditions
are: 'that the body of the testator shall be deposited in some
authorised place for the reception of the bodies of the dead, situate
within the boundaries of, or appertaining to some place of worship
within, the parish of St. George, Bloomsbury, and St. Giles in the
Fields or St. Andrew above the Bars and St. George the Martyr.' Now
Egyptian mummies are the bodies of the dead, and this Museum is an
authorised place for their reception; and this building is situate
within the boundaries of the parish of St. George, Bloomsbury. Therefore
the provisions of clause two have been duly carried out and therefore
Godfrey Bellingham is the principal beneficiary under the will, and the
co-executor, in accordance with the wishes of the testator. Is that
quite clear?"

"Perfectly," said Dr. Norbury; "and a most astonishing coincidence--but,
my dear young lady, had you not better sit down? You are looking very
ill."

He glanced anxiously at Ruth, who was pale to the lips and was now
leaning heavily on my arm.

"I think, Berkeley," said Thorndyke, "you had better take Miss
Bellingham out into the gallery, where there is more air. This has been
a tremendous climax to all the trials that she has borne so bravely. Go
out with Berkeley," he added gently, laying his hand on her shoulder,
"and sit down while we develop the other negatives. You mustn't break
down now, you know, when the storm has passed and the sun is beginning
to shine." He held the door open, and as we passed out his face softened
into a smile of infinite kindness. "You won't mind my locking you out,"
said he; "this is a photographic dark-room at present."

The key grated in the lock and we turned away into the dim gallery. It
was not quite dark, for a beam of moonlight filtered in here and there
through the blinds that covered the sky-lights. We walked on slowly, her
arm linked in mine, and for a while neither of us spoke. The great rooms
were very silent and peaceful and solemn. The hush, the stillness, the
mystery of the half-seen forms in the cases around, were all in harmony
with the deeply-felt sense of a great deliverance that filled our
hearts.

We had passed through into the next room before either of us broke the
silence. Insensibly our hands had crept together, and as they met and
clasped with mutual pressure, Ruth exclaimed: "How dreadful and tragic
it is! Poor, poor Uncle John! It seems as if he had come back from the
world of shadows to tell us of this awful thing. But, O God! what a
relief it is!" She caught her breath in one or two quick sobs and
pressed my hand passionately.

"It is over, dearest," I said. "It is gone for ever. Nothing remains but
the memory of your sorrow and your noble courage and patience."

"I can't realise it yet," she murmured. "It has been like a frightful,
interminable dream."

"Let us put it away," said I, "and think only of the happy life that is
opening."

She made no reply, and only a quick catch in her breath, now and again,
told of the long agony that she had endured with such heroic calm.

We walked on slowly, scarcely disturbing the silence with our soft
foot-falls, through the wide doorway into the second room. The vague
shapes of the mummy-cases standing erect in the wall-cases, loomed out
dim and gigantic, silent watchers keeping their vigil with the memories
of untold centuries locked in their shadowy breasts. They were an
awesome company. Reverend survivors from a vanished world, they looked
out from the gloom of their abiding-place, but with no shade of menace
or of malice in their silent presence; rather with a solemn benison on
the fleeting creatures of to-day.

Half-way along the room a ghostly figure, somewhat aloof from its
companions, showed a dim, pallid blotch where its face would have been.
With one accord we halted before it.

"Do you know who it is, Ruth?" I asked.

"Of course I do," she answered. "It is Artemidorus."

We stood, hand in hand, facing the mummy, letting our memories fill in
the vague silhouette with its well-remembered details. Presently I drew
her nearer to me and whispered:

"Ruth! do you remember when we last stood here?"

"As if I could ever forget!" she answered passionately. "Oh, Paul! The
sorrow of it! The misery! How it wrung my heart to tell you! Were you
very unhappy when I left you?"

"Unhappy! I never knew, until then, what real, heart-breaking sorrow
was. It seemed as if the light had gone out of my life for ever. But
there was just one little spot of brightness left."

"What was that?"

"You made me a promise, dear--a solemn promise; and I felt--at least I
hoped--that the day would come, if I only waited patiently, when you
would be able to redeem it."

She crept closer to me and yet closer, until her head nestled on my
shoulder and her soft cheek lay against mine.

"Dear heart," I whispered, "is it now? Is the time fulfilled?"

"Yes, dearest," she murmured softly. "It is now--and for ever."

Reverently I folded her in my arms; gathered her to the heart that
worshipped her utterly. Henceforth no sorrows could hurt us, no
misfortunes vex; for we should walk hand in hand on our earthly
pilgrimage and find the way all too short.

Time, whose sands run out with such unequal swiftness for the just and
the unjust, the happy and the wretched, lagged, no doubt, with the
toilers in the room that we had left. But for us its golden grains
trickled out apace and left the glass empty before we had begun to mark
their passage. The turning of a key and the opening of a door aroused us
from our dream of perfect happiness. Ruth raised her head to listen, and
our lips met for one brief moment. Then, with a silent greeting to the
friend who had looked on our grief and witnessed our final happiness, we
turned and retraced our steps quickly, filling the great, empty rooms
with chattering echoes.

"We won't go back into the dark-room--which isn't dark now," said Ruth.

"Why not?" I asked.

"Because--when I came out I was very pale; and I'm--well, I don't think
I am very pale now. Besides, poor Uncle John is in there--and--I should
be ashamed to look at him with my selfish heart overflowing with
happiness."

"You needn't be," said I. "It is the day of our lives and we have a
right to be happy. But you shan't go in, if you don't wish to," and I
accordingly steered her adroitly past the beam of light that streamed
from the open door.

"We have developed four negatives," said Thorndyke, as he emerged with
the others, "and I am leaving them in the custody of Doctor Norbury, who
will sign each when they are dry, as they may have to be put in
evidence. What are you going to do?"

I looked at Ruth to see what she wished.

"If you won't think me ungrateful," said she, "I should rather be alone
with my father to-night. He is very weak, and--"

"Yes, I understand," I said hastily. And I did. Mr. Bellingham was a man
of strong emotions and would probably be somewhat overcome by the sudden
change of fortune and the news of his brother's tragic death.

"In that case," said Thorndyke, "I will bespeak your services. Will you
go on and wait for me at my chambers, when you have seen Miss Bellingham
home?"

I agreed to this, and we set forth under the guidance of Dr. Norbury
(who carried an electric lamp) to return by the way we had come; two of
us, at least, in a vastly different frame of mind. The party broke up at
the entrance gates, and as Thorndyke wished my companion "Good night,"
she held his hand and looked up in his face with swimming eyes.

"I haven't thanked you, Doctor Thorndyke," she said, "and I don't feel
that I ever can. What you have done for me and my father is beyond all
thanks. You have saved his life and you have rescued me from the most
horrible ignominy. Good-bye! and God bless you!"

The hansom that bowled along eastward--at most unnecessary speed--bore
two of the happiest human beings within the wide boundaries of the town.
I looked at my companion as the lights of the street shone into the cab,
and was astonished at the transformation. The pallor of her cheek had
given place to a rosy pink; the hardness, the tension, the haggard
self-repression that had aged her face, were all gone, and the girlish
sweetness that had so bewitched me in the early days of our love had
stolen back. Even the dimple was there when the sweeping lashes lifted
and her eyes met mine in a smile of infinite tenderness. Little was said
on that brief journey. It was happiness enough to sit, hand clasped in
hand, and know that our time of trial was past; that no cross of Fate
could ever part us now.

The astonished cabman set us down, according to instructions, at the
entrance to Nevill's Court, and watched us with open mouth as we
vanished into the narrow passage. The court had settled down for the
night, and no one marked our return; no curious eye looked down on us
from the dark house-front as we said "Good-bye" just inside the gate.

"You will come and see us to-morrow, dear, won't you?" she asked.

"Do you think it possible that I could stay away, then?"

"I hope not. But come as early as you can. My father will be positively
frantic to see you; because I shall have told him, you know. And,
remember, that it is you who have brought us this great deliverance.
Good night, Paul."

"Good night, sweetheart."

She put up her face frankly to be kissed and then ran up to the ancient
door; whence she waved me a last good-bye. The shabby gate in the wall
closed behind me and hid her from my sight; but the light of her love
went with me and turned the dull street into a path of glory.